Objectifying Dean
by Katricrush
Summary: In the mood to imagine Dean doing something inexplicably sexy? Well then, let The Objectifying Dean Team help you out with these series of one shots!
1. Pipe Dreams

**A/N:** These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as ffnet doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, Bird2K, DeansBabyBird and Katricrush.

Pipe Dreams, by Katricrush

A construction site in mid-August was a month spent in Hell, where the temperatures often soared well beyond 100º outside in the open air, and where the building's inside temperatures reached well past 120º…Hell. It was Hell and that was the only way to describe it.

By lunchtime, Dean's t-shirt was drenched from his sweat, and dirty from the pipe-threading job he'd been performing all morning. Although slightly cooled by his break, he knew it was a temporary reprieve and that the afternoon's temperatures would be even higher.

Reaching the 17th floor, Dean picked up his toolbelt and buckled it low on his hips. Adjusting the tools within the pouch for ease of extraction, he moved the hanging tools held on the belt itself, so that the whole thing balanced on his hips comfortably. The sweat was already dripping from his temples, down his strong jawline, and landing on his shoulders and shirt front. Sighing, he reached for the bottom of his t-shirt where it clung to his sweat-slicked skin.

Forming itself to every muscular plane and valley of his Adonis-like physique, the t-shirt fought its removal at every point on his stomach, his chest and his back. Peeling it off was the best way to describe the battle Dean fought to free himself, and it had become an everyday struggle for him these days.

Pulling the shirt over his toned, flat stomach, it proved difficult to loosen it from his strong lower back muscles. Finally, having freed himself to this point, he had to retighten his grip for the even more difficult transition of pulling it up and over his well-defined chest, as the shirt this time, refused to budge from the inverted, muscular V of his back. One last yank, and it was up and over his head, only to catch on the muscles of his biceps and triceps, which, having been put through their paces, left their own stamp of uncooperation on the process. They'd contracted and bunched up enough that the seams of both shirt sleeves had split, ruining the shirt in the process.

Sighing again, Dean could only throw the offending shirt on the floor as he had done every other day, and he wondered how many more t-shirts he'd be losing to this job before his work here was done. Resetting his toolbelt, he walked to the pile of 10' threaded pipe. Bending down, every muscle from his shoulders through his back and to his thighs, contracted and pulled at the same exact moment as he took in a deep breath, released it and flexed. He lifted the large, heavy length of pipe and placing it on top of his shoulder, it balanced there, as he began the hot, hard work of the afternoon.


	2. Corn Silk

**A/N:** These are a series of One Shots written and posted separately by the individuals of The Objectifying Dean Team as ffnet doesn't allow joint posts. Check out entries from lostatc, Bird2K, DeansBabyBird and Katricrush.

Corn Silk, by Katricrush

Rounding the corner of the house, your heart is heavy at the thought of yet another day of working outdoors in this sweltering heat.

And then you see him. He's sitting on the edge of the deck, empty brown, paper bags scattered all around him. As you watch, he pulls out a leaf covered corn cob from the filled bag nearby. He starts by pulling the leaves down the vegetable, from the corn silk at the top, down past the stem. Layers and layers of leaves protect the corn at the center and his strong hands strip many of them at the same time. You watch transfixed as his hands work to shuck the corn, and after the leaves are removed and put into one of the empty bags, he finishes with the careful, detailed work of pulling the multitudes of corn silk fibers off the cob. Once the majority of the silk is removed, he holds the cob firmly in his callused palm and snaps off the overly long stem. He carefully looks over the cob before a small smile lights up his face and he nods, satisfied with his work. He places it in the pot before grabbing the next leaf covered vegetable from the bag.

You allow your eyes to drift from the mesmerizing deftness of his hands to take in the rest of him.

The sun is hot, but he appears relaxed, his bare feet tapping out the rhythm of a song only he can hear. He's dressed simply in a cotton t-shirt and frayed jeans but still, the sweat is dripping off his forehead, temples and the back of his head. Brushing it away with the back of his hand, he manages to smear some dirt on his face and deposit some corn silk at the same time. Your fingers itch to wipe it away but before you can move to help, he reaches down and pulls the bottom of his sweaty t-shirt up off his flat stomach to wipe at his forehead in an attempt to stop the tickling.

As if realizing that it will take more than a single swipe to rid himself of the itchy hangers-on, he pulls his t-shirt up over his head, only getting it stuck a little as it refuses to budge over his well defined upper back and chest. The muscles in his arms flex in a effort to pull the offending shirt the rest of the way off of him, but it stubbornly remains stuck. He lowers his shirt enough to see over it again, and grabbing hold of the material further up he gives himself a better chance at removing it.

This time he exhales as he pulls it up and over his muscular chest, and it only takes a little effort to get it to release from his back muscles. Off of his shoulders and head, he has to pull hard to force it to let his biceps and triceps go free, which they finally do with only the smallest sound of a tear. He stops to look at his shirt, holding it out in front of him, and he seems to be searching for where the fabric may have ripped. He finds it at the point where the sleeve meets the shoulder, and sighing, he uses his shirt as a rag to wipe his face, neck and body.

Experience has taught you that there is a price to pay for being cooler, and it comes in the form of corn silk sticking to every inch of any exposed, sweat-slicked skin. And this man is paying the price. The silk fibers have landed on his face, and it's obvious they're tickling him around his lips, on his cheeks and at his temples near his eyes. His face can't help but react to the constant tickling, and he finally laughs at his inability to rid himself of the nuisance threads, despite his best efforts at wiping at them with his arms, blowing at them, and finally, picking off the individual silk threads.

The whole thing is ridiculous, the silk has gotten everywhere, coating the legs of his jeans, sticking to his stomach and chest, and landing on his shoulders and arms. Soon, he has more silk covering him than he has hair on his body.

Using his shirt, he does his best to control the amount of silk that seems to almost fly onto him, but in the end, he realizes he has more sticking to him than anyone else who'd been shucking the whole time he'd struggled to get a handle on things.

Looking up, he meets your eyes and smiles. Those warm, green eyes sparkle with humor when he realizes you've seen the whole thing.

"I guess I'm not the first one to have this happen, am I?"

You know it's silly, but you can't stop yourself from giggling a little in response and he chuckles, a deep, rich sound that warms your ears and sends a tingle down your spine. He looks down at the impressive pile of corn he's already prepared.

"Still, not bad for a first effort at this corn shucking business." He looks up as you answer.

"Yeah, not bad."

And then you blush as you realize you're still just standing in place, staring at him. He grins back and nods to his right.

"Wanna sit?"

Lightly dropping down next to him, he offers you his hand, and he grins again when he notices it's covered in corn silk.

Laughing, you take it anyway. His strong, firm handshake feels pleasantly rough against your palm.

"I'm Dean."

He says his name in that captivatingly deep voice. Being so close, you realize that in the rich, green color of his eyes, there are small flecks of gold. And he's got the longest lashes you've ever seen.

"So, you'll be at the barbeque tonight?" His smile is the only invitation you need.

And you can't help thinking, a feast on a perfect, warm summer evening in the company of this great looking, really nice guy.

It doesn't get much better than this.

Nodding, you smile, knowing you wouldn't miss it for the world.


	3. The Glory Years

The Glory Years, by Katricrush

Ordinarily, the sight of a lone man just standing around a child's playground would make you extremely suspicious, but there's just something about this one. You bend to unclip the leashes from Stella and Guinness and watch them bound happily away into the woods that border the small park.

He looks as if he's waiting for someone and he's having trouble doing so. You watch as his eyes keep drifting over to the old, metal "monkey bars," his half grin slightly wistful, and your guess would be, he remembers climbing them as a child.

Finally, he throws down the stick he's been breaking into pieces and walks over to put his hand on the bar about chest height.

He pauses, looking at his watch before glancing around. You clearly hear him say. "Aw, what the hell…"

He backs up about fifteen feet before rushing the bars. Pushing off on the lowest one with his left foot, he uses the momentum to climb each one in turn, until he's standing on the top of the jungle gym, having never touched it with his hands. He takes a moment to look around the park, then crouches down to ease his way through the bars so he can hang from the center topmost bar, his knees bent, as he sways slowly back and forth. Pulling himself up by his arms, he does ten slow pull-ups before lowering himself to the ground to stand up and look around again.

You glance around, too, but don't see anyone else, so you return your attention to this decidedly athletic figure before you.

He is squeezing through the monkey bars and heading over to the horizontal bars set up.

Raising his arms over his head, he grabs hold of the highest bar, his forearms and upper arms flexing and tightening, and he swings himself up and around a few times. As he rests at the top, he takes in his surroundings from this vantage point, and you find yourself holding your breath, hoping you'll go unnoticed if you don't move.

_Don't look here…oh, don't let him see me… _Not sure if it's a mantra or a prayer, it's the only thing you can think while you watch him, waiting to see if he reacts to your presence. You finally breathe again when he goes back to what he was doing.

Dismounting, he casually walks over to the playground rings. Even from here you can see the flush of his cheeks and the sweat sticking his t-shirt to his back and sides and it's not surprising when he removes the constricting garment, grabbing the front bottom and pulling it off in one slow, smooth motion. It only sticks a little at his shoulders before he tosses it onto a small patch of grass as he eyes the rings.

You see him inhale, then let his breath out slowly. He leaps up a little to grasp the rings and swings his legs and body up and around in an arc that finishes with him holding the rings in his hands as he keeps his body supported in a straight line by his tensed and locked arms and shoulders.

He slowly raises his legs into the classic "L" shape, keeping them straight and parallel with the ground. You see his stomach muscles lock and his six-pack becomes even more defined as he breathes slowly while holding the position for a slow count. Lowering his legs quickly, he pushes to a backuprise, extending his arms out to the sides as far as he can to an almost perfect iron cross. Every muscle in his upper body strains to hold his position, and he doesn't release until he is completely still. He dismounts with a simple kick forward and a flip over backward to land, and he just stops himself from falling on his ass by taking a couple of quick steps backward. Looking at the rings, he smiles and then moves to pick up his shirt.

He's pumped up and sweating enough that his body glistens in the reflected lamplight that shines over the area. He doesn't put his shirt on right away and his back, shoulders and chest muscles are so clearly defined by his exertions, that you almost gasp when he moves fully into the light. You're only able to stop yourself by putting your hand over your mouth.

He looks around the park again before going to sit on the green bench near a large ash tree. He looks warm, you imagine his muscles must be loose, and his upper body and arms are flush with the effort he put into his playtime. They ripple and flex as he puts his arm across his chest to rub at his upper back and shoulder.

You idly wonder how he'd react if you stepped out from where you are and offered to massage the knot for him, and through your distracted musings you hear him sigh deeply.

He seems lost in thought for only a minute or two when you see a taller man approach him from behind.

Without turning to look, it's obvious he senses the second man's approach, and he takes his t-shirt in both hands and stretches it out a little before putting it on. He turns his head to watch the tall man come near. It's clear to you that this is who he's been waiting for as they smile at each other in greeting.

"Yeah, Sammy, you caught me…relivin' the glory years." You hear him chuckle, deep and resonant, and "Sammy" laughs.

"Yeah, those glory years, Dean. They lasted all of one semester your Junior year, if I remember correctly."

So, it's "Dean". You whisper the name, your tongue and lips enjoying the feel of it, but you turn your attention back to the present when you realize he's speaking again.

"Ah, Sam, but what a semester it was. Gymnastics was a girl-magnet, and brother, were there some beauties that year."

Sam shakes his head, but can't seem to stop his smile from negating his initial response.

"Every sport was a girl-magnet for you, Dean. Didn't matter what you did. You could've done curling, and they would've packed the ice rink."

You grin knowingly to yourself, recognizing the truth of that one.

"But, you always were good at the gymnastics, I gotta admit that…I never could get a handle on the rings thing, but you made it look easy."

"Hey, don't feel bad, Sam. Shooting hoops from half court, you could swish 'em without lookin'. Too bad the basketball teams always sucked. No way was that sport gonna be a girl-magnet. Which, thinkin' about it, is prob'ly why you have to struggle so much now. Not enough practice." Dean tried to hide his crooked grin at the obvious baiting tactic, and was rewarded with Sam's response.

"Dean, you're an ass."

Dean smiled openly as he stood to leave.

"Yeah, I know, little brother, I got the better part of that one, too."

They walk away shoulder to shoulder, their steps synchronized, and you enjoy the grace of their movements even now, while they're leaving--a small encore to finish off this special night's entertainment.

Finally allowing yourself a soft sigh, you're left to round up your Labs. Taking your time as you walk home, you find yourself lost in your thoughts as you replay the images the mysterious "Dean" has left for your imagination. Beautiful, slow moments in time haunt you, and walking home takes a little longer than usual this night.

You don't even notice.


End file.
